


How to Fluster an Elf

by Llama1412



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Background Relationships, Bathing/Washing, Canonical Character Death, Culture, Empress Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Fantastic Racism, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Hair Washing, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Luxury, M/M, Nilfgaard, Politics, Post-Blood and Wine (The Witcher 3 DLC), Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:55:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29118609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llama1412/pseuds/Llama1412
Summary: When Geralt, Dandelion, and Zoltan make a casual remark about never having seen Iorveth flustered, Roche decides to take it as a challenge. Featuring Nilfgaardian feasts, cultural differences, really fancy beds and baths, and a witcher, a dwarf, and a bard who are having the time of their lives watching Roche try to catch Iorveth off guard.
Relationships: Blue Stripes & Vernon Roche, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon/Morvran Voorhis, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Zoltan Chivay, Iorveth & Vernon Roche, Iorveth/Vernon Roche
Comments: 27
Kudos: 49





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, Vivi_7 and I were discussing ideas and I was practicing doodling Roche and Iorveth kissing, and somehow that led to [this idea, for which I drew a comic](https://bard-llama.tumblr.com/post/641775215760834560/how-to-fluster-an-elf) and have now started writing a fic. Except the fic has grown on me a lot, so it's gonna be a bit long.

As Empress of Nilfgaard, Ciri was obligated to host a week-long banquet for the Summer Solstice. As Ciri’s guardian and father-figure, Geralt was obligated to attend. And if you happened to have been in range when Geralt found this out, then it turned out you too were obligated to attend.

Which is how Vernon Roche somehow found himself traveling all the way to the fucking capital of Nilfgaard, predictably called Nilfgaard. It was not a short journey, and it was not made any shorter by the companions he was stuck with. Because he hadn’t been the only one visiting Geralt at Corvo Bianco when Ciri had made her announcement. Of all of them, only Geralt’s odd friend Regis had been quick thinking enough to come up with a valid excuse not to attend.

Geralt, at least, was a familiar traveling companion. Dandelion was – well, pretty much exactly what he’d expected Dandelion to be like after the bard had sent his first spy report on Flotsam to Roche in fucking iambic pentameter. At least he was entertaining, and Roche had plenty of experience ignoring people who talked constantly. Dandelion’s voice was less grating than Fenn’s had been. 

Thinking about his team was a great way to end the day in a depressive spiral at the bottom of a bottle, so Roche quickly focused on who _else_ was traveling with him. Zoltan wasn’t someone he knew well, despite the couple of times they’d traveled together now, but conversations with the dwarf were enjoyable. If nothing else, Roche’s vocabulary was actively being expanded every time Zoltan broke out a new crude saying.

And then there was Iorveth. Roche hadn’t even known Iorveth had been _there_ when Geralt shanghai’d them all into attending, but when they prepared to set out the next morning, Iorveth had been sitting at the dining table eating breakfast like he’d been there all along. Roche was still suspicious about when he’d actually arrived, but Geralt refused to give him any information, so it was a meaningless suspicion.

Traveling with Iorveth was… actually not as bad as he’d expected. They fought with each other literally constantly, but at some point, he’d found himself thinking of things to say just to get into an argument with Iorveth, because Iorveth made arguments _fun._

That didn’t mean Geralt was right when he called them friends, though. Roche was not friends with Iorveth. That would be weird. Iorveth was his _enemy._ And they still did all the stuff enemies should – yell at each other, wrestle, grapple, attempt to stab each other, etc. And okay, yes, maybe they also spent most of their free time together doing those things and also maybe sometimes fighting against each other looked a lot like working together, but still. They weren’t _friends._

But, even though they weren’t friends, Roche had gotten used to spending all day sniping back and forth with the elf. It was a nice way to pass time. It was habitual, really.

So Roche was only annoyed because his routine was being ruined, _not_ because Iorveth suddenly had no time for him once they reached the capital. Because _Iorveth_ was actually important here, considered a war hero and apparently adored by the masses. As soon as they’d arrived, Ciri’s advisors had whisked him away and Roche was just a bit disappointed that he wouldn’t get his usual spar. That was all.

At least Iorveth had to put up with Dandelion. Because somehow the bards songs had reached even Nilfgaard and he was considered equally as important and popular. So they got to go off and do whatever things people who were adored by the public did, and Roche, Geralt, and Zoltan were stuck lingering in a ridiculously oversized hallway, utterly useless.

After several uncomfortable, echoing minutes, a maid approached them and curtsied. “My lords? The Empress expressed that you were to be given our best rooms. I can take you there now, if you would like to rest before the banquet?”

Geralt shifted awkwardly. “I’m no lord.”

The maid blinked at him. “You are our Empress’s father of choice.” She stated the fact like it was an obvious explanation as to why Geralt’s objection was nonsense.

She wasn’t wrong. A smile tugged at Roche’s lips and he stepped forward. “Yes, please take us to our rooms. When does the banquet actually start? I thought we were early?”

“Early?” the maid tilted her head in confusion. “I’m afraid I don’t understand, sir. The banquet begins as soon as the Sun arrives. The kitchens have been busy preparing for days, and now that you are here, the banquet can begin promptly!” She smiled brightly at them. “Which is to say, the banquet began as soon as the Empress returned. But you’ve traveled a long way and we understand the need for rest. You may join the banquet whenever you are ready.”

Roche scratched his head, glancing at Zoltan, who shrugged. “Um… what do you mean ‘when the sun arrives’? It’s almost sundown.”

The maid laughed quietly. “Pardon me, sir. I do not speak of the Great Sun in the skies above. I speak of the Sun’s messenger, the Empress.”

“Oh,” Geralt hummed, “Ciri did mention that she was now considered the head priest of Nilfgaard’s religion.”

“Yes, my lord. The Empress interprets the Great Sun’s will. She is their emissary and the way that they speak with us.” As she explained, the maid led them down a maze of more of the ridiculously huge hallways.

“That’s… cool?” Roche grunted. “How do you feel about the fact that your Great Sun’s emissary doesn’t know your beliefs?”

“Roche!” Geralt hissed.

“What?” he shrugged. It was always important to suss out discontent in court, and this sounded like a prime set up for discord to him.

“The Great Sun works in mysterious ways. They must believe that the Empress needed to understand the north in order to lead a united empire.” She didn’t look at them as she spoke and Roche kept his ‘bingo’ internal. That may have been the line Ciri’s advisors and representatives were pedalling, but the populace didn’t fully believe it.

“Does make sense,” Zoltan shrugged. “With the young lass’s life, she’s certainly skilled at seeing both the vulnerable and those that exploit them. That’s why she became Empress, yeah? To make change?”

Geralt nodded. “She wants to help people.”

_Which people?_ Roche almost said. Because by definition, helping the vulnerable meant going after those that exploited them. And those were the types of people who could make ruling very, very difficult for Cirilla.

But Geralt was right, he wasn’t here to dabble in court politics. He was just here for a banquet. A very long banquet.

Roche’s experience with banquets was… not the most positive. Not the most negative, either, as they had free food and free ale and even dancing, not that anyone wanted to dance with _him._ Because while Roche may have considered King Foltest a personal friend, he wasn’t the sort of friend that polite society wished to rub elbows with. But, again, free food and ale. It counted for a lot. Besides, while most of Temeria’s nobility would snub him, the court sorceress had always been willing to keep him company. People liked her better than they liked him, but to them, she was still an outsider.

Triss wasn’t here this time, but at least Geralt and Zoltan would be about to chat and drink with. The likelihood of them seeing Ciri, Dandelion, or Iorveth and getting any quality time with them was pretty much nil, though. 

The maid opened the door to his chambers and Roche quickly reassessed how notable the Nilfgaardian nobility might consider them. These rooms were _nice._ Waaaaay nicer than someone like him had _ever_ warranted. 

He walked inside the receiving room, only vaguely aware of the maid leading Zoltan and Geralt to the two rooms next to his. It was absurdly huge, especially for someone who was only expected to stay for the duration of a banquet during which everyone attended for as long as possible, stopping only to sleep and shit.

The couches and chairs arranged around the fireplace looked absurdly plush and he was almost scared to try them out, for fear that he wouldn’t get back up. How much nicer would the bed be?

It was a shame he had no one to share it with, but Roche had spent years sleeping in the dirt and the luxury of a bed – especially a bed _this_ fancy – was like a siren’s call to a body worn down from a day of travel. 

He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t. The others were probably waiting for him to go to the banquet, and– 

He sank into the bed, the soft cushion rising up to embrace him as he sat down. He’d never sat on anything so soft in his life.

Next thing he knew, he was blinking open his eyes in the pre-dawn light shining through the windows whose drapes he hadn’t thought to close. For a moment, he wasn’t sure where he was, only that he was floating on a cloud and probably still dreaming. He stretched with a deep sigh and let himself sink into the cloud’s soft embrace. Just a few more minutes...

When he woke up again, the sun was high in the sky and someone was knocking rapidly on his door. He mumbled incoherently, flailing upright in a state of complete confusion. His sleep-happy brain fumbled for answers and Roche forced himself out of bed as memories trickled through.

Ciri. Nilfgaard. The Banquet.

He blinked at the window and was startled to discover it was already late morning. Oops?

The knocking had stopped and he’d kind of forgotten about it – right up until he opened the door to the bedchamber to see Iorveth standing in the open doorway to his chambers, lockpick still in hand.

“Ah,” Iorveth said intelligently.

Roche just blinked and rubbed his eyes, trying to pull his brain out of the molasses sleep hazy state. “Iorveth?”

Iorveth cleared his throat. “No one’s seen you since we arrived. Wanted to check if you’d somehow managed to get yourself stupidly killed.”

Usually, he would respond to such a remark with a heated statement about how he was hardly going to let someone else kill him, but his brain was still working on starting up, so he just grunted. 

“Fell asleep,” he yawned, waving Iorveth into the room. “Come in. May as well use this ridiculously fancy receiving room.”

Iorveth stowed his lockpicks and sauntered into the room casually, though there was something strange about him. Roche squinted, trying to figure out what when it finally registered – “are you _blushing?_ What, did I forget to put on trousers?” He glanced down, just to make sure, but nope, he was wearing his standard Blue Stripes uniform, albeit a little worse for wear after a night of sleeping in it.

Iorveth’s snort had an odd quaver in it, but Roche couldn’t figure out why. He yawned again, stepping forward and dropping onto the couch next to Iorveth. He miscalculated and ended up leaning against Iorveth slightly as he sank into the couch. He’d been right before – it was absurdly comfortable, and he couldn’t quite bring himself to move. Iorveth would just have to deal with it.

“So,” he said around a yawn. “Why were you blushing?”

The use of past tense was intentional, but also immediately incorrect as Roche had a front row seat to watching Iorveth’s ears turn red.

“I’m not,” Iorveth cleared his throat. “Did you seriously sleep all morning?”

“Shut up,” Roche responded automatically. “The beds here are absurdly comfortable.”

“Eh,” Iorveth shrugged, jostling Roche where he was leaning against Iorveth, “I found it too soft.”

“That’s because you’re used to sleeping in trees,” he dismissed. “I, on the other hand, intend to take full advantage of the utterly absurd luxury we’re being given.”

Iorveth hummed, something odd in his voice again. “Pays to be close to the Empress.”

“Close,” Roche snorted. “Before this trip, I’d only heard of her from Geralt’s stories. But hey, I’ll take it.”

“I’d think you’d be used to this,” Iorveth said hesitantly.

Roche blinked. “What? Why?”

Iorveth waved the arm Roche wasn’t leaning against vaguely. “You were close to a king.”

“Oh. I mean, yeah, definitely got me access to some luxuries. But I’m still a soldier. An old soldier. And I’d be a much happier soldier if I could sleep on a mattress like that every night.”

“Ask the Empress for a present,” Iorveth joked.

“Ha,” Roche huffed. “I’d say that’s ridiculous, but she’d probably do it.”

“Mmm. Should’ve seen her last night. They unveiled their Empress in the best finery available in the empire to kick off the solstice celebration. She’s dressed more regularly today – well, regular for rich humans – but I imagine they’ll try to outdo themselves for the actual day of the solstice.”

Roche rubbed his face. “I can’t believe I slept through the fucking banquet. But I bet Geralt teared up like a proud father.”

“He absolutely did,” Iorveth laughed. “He’ll probably regale you with the full story, complete with staring misty eyed into his ale."

“If he won’t, Dandelion will,” he agreed and tugged at his wrinkled tunic. “Guess I’d better change so we can get back to the festivities.”

“Actually,” Iorveth began, an unusual note of hesitancy in his voice and a pink flush on his cheeks again. What was that about?

“What?”

“I only say this because Nilfgaard is apparently _very_ different from the north on this, but,” Iorveth made him wait for a long moment, then said bluntly, “you smell.”

Roche sputtered. “Well fuck me, bet you didn’t exactly smell like a flower blossom after traveling through the damn desert. But uh – does that mean we can get a bath?”

Iorveth smirked. “You haven’t explored your rooms yet, have you?”

“Uh… no? Why?”

“In that case,” Iorveth rose to his feet and bowed with a flourish, “allow me to introduce you to your _very luxurious_ bathroom.”

Roche’s eyebrow rose, but he got up and followed Iorveth as the elf headed through the door to the bedchamber – and agilely avoided tripping over Roche’s travel bag. _He,_ on the other hand, was not so fortunate, and had to hop and flail for balance to avoid falling on his face.

Iorveth laughed at him but continued to walk across the room to a door he hadn’t actually noticed until Iorveth opened it. Roche stepped through after Iorveth and immediately gaped in awe.

Cream tile greeted him as he took in a room more than half filled by a pool of water inset into the floor. He edged closer and could see several steps leading down into the water, but he couldn’t spot where the water _came_ from, because it was moving. Not a lot, not enough to even have a current. But enough to indicate that there was fresh water coming from _somewhere._

“Wha–?”

“The water runs through the walls,” Iorveth answered his unspoken question. “The rooms are apparently laid out to make the plumbing simple. It’s even warm. Seriously, stick your hand in.”

Roche narrowed his eyes in suspicion, half sure this was a trick even as he knelt down and dipped his fingers into the bath. It _was_ warm. Not hot, not the kind of temperature you could sometimes get with magic. But warm, pleasantly so – cool enough to still be a relief from the humid heat of Nilfgaard, but warm enough that he could soak for _ages._

“Yeah, I’m taking a fucking bath,” he decided, reaching for the ties on his armor and shucking it off as quickly as possible. He tossed his chaperon aside, absently amazed it had stayed on through his sleep, and pulled his chainmail over his head. 

Feeling about 80lbs lighter – and wow, how had he even managed to sleep in that? He’d done it before, but never comfortably – he turned to sit on a convenient bench to remove his boots and found Iorveth staring at him with a wide eye.

No, not at him. At his _hair._

Roche cleared his throat self-consciously. “What? You want to wash it for me or something?”

Iorveth blinked with a startle and flushed again. Had he ever seen Iorveth turn so red so often? Was Iorveth sick or something?

“Wash – your hair,” the elf stammered. “Uh… I mean, I guess I could?” Iorveth’s voice was pitched a little too high and he looked vaguely bewildered at himself to be offering, but nonetheless, the words were out there.

Roche considered it. It _would_ be nice to have someone properly tend to his hair. It was so thick and tangled so easily and frankly, a little help might be good. “Uh, yeah, okay.” Boots finally off, he stood up to push his trousers and shorts down his leg, looking at the pool consideringly. “If I sit on the steps, you should be able to sit on the edge without getting wet and still reach.”

“Right,” Iorveth nodded, removing the outer layer of what Roche suddenly realized were robes he’d never seen before, dyed in bright yellows and greens that reminded him very suddenly that Iorveth was an _elf,_ a creature intrinsically connected to nature, if the rumors were true.

Hadn’t he also heard somewhere that hair was considered intimate for elves? Eh, must be misremembering.

He stepped into the bath and the first touch of warm water around his ankles planted an immediate craving for more. He rushed down the steps, marveling at how deep the pool was. To reach the bottom with his toes, he had to let the water lap up over his ears, so he tread water and retreated back to the bottom step, his neck submerged up to his chin. 

“This is fucking amazing, what the hell,” he sighed happily as he dunked his head underwater and then pushed off the step to float on his back. “Shit, they should’ve just built one of these in Vizima and we all would’ve bowed to Nilfgaardian rule by the time the first snows of winter fell.”

Iorveth snorted, watching Roche as he drifted ever so slowly. The human lay naked, spread eagle in the water, moving just enough to keep himself afloat. He looked strangely peaceful, the lines on his face relaxed from it’s usual deep frown.

Swallowing hard, Iorveth jerked his eyes away, moving forward and curling into a cross legged seat at the edge of the bath. “Any time you’re ready,” he said, determinedly not looking at the human.

Roche sighed, making Iorveth wait just because, but eventually, he swam over to the steps and seated himself in front of Iorveth. “Oh, uh, you’re gonna want a comb. My hair tangles like a son of a bitch.”

Iorveth nodded, rising gracefully and striding towards a cabinet. He pulled out several small bottles and then turned and threw a bar of soap at Roche’s face.

Roche did not catch it in time. 

“Motherfu–” he swore, fumbling to catch the soap before it sank to the bottom. The bar was slippery and when he raised it above the water, the light scent of lemongrass drifted to his nose. “Is – is the soap scented?” He raised it closer to him and took a deliberate sniff. “Huh, that’s awesome.”

“Elves taught them,” Iorveth dismissed, resettling at the edge of the bath. “We’ve made scented soaps for two thousand years. I still don’t understand why you humans in the north haven’t figured it out yet.”

“Huh.” He hadn’t actually known that. Traveling on the road with his team would have been _much_ more pleasant if they’d had some nice lemongrass to cover the stubborn scent of PT’s sweat. The man may have been the best field medic Roche had ever seen, but he sure did sweat a lot.

–used to sweat a lot. 

Roche swallowed hard, shoving thoughts of his team down. He couldn’t deal with that right now. Possibly not ever.

A light touch against his brow startled him back to the present and he twisted around to look at Iorveth. “All good?” Iorveth asked innocently, as if it had been possible to miss the sight of him approaching breakdown and then veering off.

“Yeah,” he cleared his throat. “Fine. Shall we?”

Iorveth hummed, letting him change the subject. The elf popped open one of the bottles and rubbed the contents between his palms until they started to suds up. Then Iorveth’s hands were in Roche’s hair and obviously he should have seen that coming, but it was somehow still a shock. Iorveth’s hand. In his hair. _Washing_ his hair.

This was weird, wasn’t it? It was hard to tell. Enemies shouldn’t wash each other’s hair, should they?

But Geralt was constantly insisting that they were friends, and they _weren’t,_ but maybe this was normal for friends? Roche hadn’t really had a friend who wasn’t a superior or a subordinate before, aside from Geralt. Would Geralt wash his hair?

...actually, he’d seen Geralt eat raw meat. Geralt was not a good metric to measure normalness against.

Iorveth had agreed to wash his hair. The elf didn’t seem to have any problems with it, so maybe it _was_ normal for friends.

Did that mean they could do this again some time? Because Ioveth’s fingers were long and strong and scratching against his scalp in a way that sent pleasant tingles down his spine. The poor elf was probably frustrated and annoyed with the way his hair tended to cling and tangle at the slightest provocation, but Roche himself was enjoying the moment. He didn’t even know what Iorveth was doing with those different bottles, and frankly, he didn’t care as long as Iorveth kept stroking through his hair.

“You know you’re supposed to use that soap,” Iorveth’s amused voice penetrated the haze of his mind and he blinked down at the greenish brown lump in his hands.

“Right,” he muttered, rubbing the soap across his arm. For long moments, there was no sound except the splashing of water and the crackle of dissolving suds. Then Iorveth cleared his throat and removed his hands from Roche’s hair.

Roche did _not_ whine, thank you very much, but it was possible he made a _slight_ noise. Iorveth chuckled in response. “Rinse,” the elf instructed. 

He dipped under the surface, rubbing a hand through his hair. He was surprised when, instead of snagging his fingers in the midst of tangles, his hand slid easily past silky strands. Coming back up for air, he tested it again, running a hand through his hair.

Smooth, untangled, soft, even. _How!?_

“Okay,” Roche admitted, taking a seat on the step again. “Clearly you elves have some sort of secret hair magic.”

Iorveth snorted. “It’s all about the right materials. And patience.”

“Welp,” he popped the p, “that rules me out. No patience.”

“Believe me, I’m aware.” 

“Guess I’ll just have to ask you to do this again,” Roche shrugged, faux casual. 

Iorveth’s breath hitched, but before Roche could retract his statement, the elf nodded, reaching out to lather another substance into his hair. “Nice hair deserves to be taken care of. Of course you humans wouldn’t do it right.”

“Great, then you can take care of it.”

Huffing a laugh, Iorveth scratched across his scalp again, and Roche melted. 

“Yeah, I’m totally making you do this from now on.”

“Who would’ve guessed that all it takes to make Vernon Roche pliable is rubbing behind his ears like a dog?”

“Please, are you even _trying_ with that insult? Like I haven’t been called worse than a mutt.”

“Hmm,” Iorveth hummed in agreement, pushing down on his head. “Rinse.”

Roche slipped under the surface, and opened his eyes to look up at Iorveth through the water, struck with the sudden urge to pull the elf in. But no, Iorveth’s clothes were nice, and if he’d already been at the banquet, people would notice if he came back in different robes.

Another time, Roche promised himself. After all, Iorveth had basically agreed to do this again. 

He closed his eyes and rose out of the water again. Next time, he’d throw Iorveth into the pool and see if the elf was tall enough to touch the bottom.

Probably was, the asshole. Why did he have to be so _tall!?_

Iorveth’s hands stroked through his hair again. “Leave this in your hair while it dries. It’ll help keep it from tangling.”

“Awesome.” He finished scrubbing himself with the soap and rinsed off one last time before climbing up the steps. “Where are the towels?’

“Here,” Iorveth held one out for him.

Soft. That was all he could think. How was everything here so _soft!?_

“I am stealing these towels,” he announced.

Iorveth laughed. “Vernon Roche, suddenly a proponent of Nilfgaardian goods? People back north would lose their minds.”

“Ain’t no proponent. That’s why I’ll steal them.”

“Oh yes, I’m sure that will prove quite a detriment to the empire.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Roche grumbled, returning to the bed chamber with the towel wrapped around his waist. It was almost a shame he had to put on real clothes. They weren’t anywhere near as comfortable as this towel.

But he’d already missed a day and a half of the banquet, so he should probably get a move on.

“I don’t need to wear something fancy like that, do I?” He gestured to the embroidered outer robe Iorveth was pulling back on.

Iorveth shrugged. “No idea. They left these in my rooms as a not so subtle hint, so…”

As no such gift had been left for him, his armor would have to do. Wearing Temerian armor to a Nilfgaardian banquet. Oh yeah, this would be fun.

“Okay, let’s go,” he said a few minutes later. He felt kind of regretful about pulling his chaperon on over his oddly soft hair, but it would be just _weird_ to go without it.

Iorveth led them through echoing hallways to the banquet hall.

“So,” Roche asked, “are they gonna whisk you away to go be important, again?”

Grimacing, Iorveth grunted. “Apparently someone told them a different version of events about how Nilfgaard handed over 55 Vrihedd Brigade officers to be executed by the north.” His voice was dark, and Roche suddenly remembered the rumors that Iorveth himself had been one of those officers. 

“So what do they think happened?”

“No one been able to give me a clear answer,” Iorveth frowned. “But they seem to be under the impression that I’m some sort of hero.”

“Nice.” He raised an eyebrow at the face Iorveth made. “Not nice?”

“These are the same people who would have argued to surrender us to northern ‘justice’.” The quotations were clear in Iorveth’s voice. “But now it’s more convenient to pretend Nilfgaard never betrayed us.”

“And you’ve been telling them otherwise?”

Iorveth twitched.

“You _haven’t!?”_ He’d never known Iorveth _not_ to make his opinion clearly known.

“I may not care for human court politics, but even I know that calling their Empress a liar would only cause problems for Cirilla.”

Roche hummed. “Does _she_ know that’s not the way it happened?”

Iorveth paused, tilting his head. “I will make sure of it.”

Roche nodded, stepping out of the way of a scurrying page boy. “So you get to spend this week long party pretending you don’t want to murder everyone you speak to. How’s that going for you?”

“Ugh,” Iorveth groaned. “If I don’t snap before the end of the week, it’ll be a miracle.”

He laughed. “Well, if you need to hide a body…”

“You’d help?” Iorveth smirked. “The goal is _not_ to get caught, you know.”

Roche scoffed, “rude! I’ll have you know, I am excellent at getting away with murder.”

Decent at it, anyway. He was still alive, after all. And King Henselt very pointedly was not.

If he were allowing himself to think about his team, he would hope that they’d risen a glass to his health once their revenge was taken.

Iorveth hummed, clearly uncertain whether he was telling the truth of not.

Roche grinned and did not clarify.

Snorting, Iorveth shook his head and opened the door to the banquet hall. As the elf had predicted, noblewomen swarmed him immediately, carrouling him away from Roche’s side.

Roche convinced himself that he did not feel jealous as Iorveth sent him a farewell look and let himself be led off by tittering women.

“Vernon,” Geralt called, and Roche made a beeline for the Witcher’s white hair, dodging around nobles and servants alike who didn’t care one whit who the idiot in Temerian armor was. There was a time he would’ve been pleased at his invisibility – much of his value came from his ability to be overlooked at the most crucial of times – but at the moment, something bitter twisted in his stomach. At least he’d have Geralt and Zoltan to talk to.

“Geralt, Zoltan,” he greeted. “Where does a man need to do to get a drink around here?”

“He need but ask,” Zoltan said cheerily, sliding a full tankard of ale in front of him. “What happened to you? Iorveth damn near got _fussy_ wondering if you’d managed to off yourself.”

Roche laughed. One thing he’d learned in the long trip to Nilfgaard: Zoltan and Iorveth did _not_ get along. They were icily polite to each other and otherwise largely pretended the other didn’t exist. 

So for Zoltan to bring Iorveth up himself? Something was fishy.

“Fell asleep,” he answered. “What do you mean fussy?”

“Fussy. Fretful. Overwrought. Distressed. I’m sure I can come up with more of these.”

He rolled his eyes. “I know what it means, thank you. What I’m not clear on is it being applied to _Iorveth._ By _you.”_

Zoltan shrugged. “He had to beg a favor of Geralt just to get away long enough to check on you. I’d call that fussy.”

Roche blinked, not sure what to do with that. “Uh… okay.”

“Ignore him,” Geralt grunted, sliding him a plate of venison with some sort of berry sauce. “Sleep well?”

“Yeah, actually. Your daughter got us some nice digs.”

Zoltan laughed. “Everything is still oversized, but they did so thoughtfully include a stool,” he snarked.

“Sounds like Nilfgaard all right,” Roche grinned, knocking his mug against Zoltan’s and taking a hearty swallow before digging into the venison. “I miss anything interesting? Iorveth mentioned that Ciri got all decked out yesterday.”

“I’ll bet he did,” Zoltan said nonsensically and Roche ignored him.

“She looked incredible. _Looks_ incredible,” Geralt grinned proudly. “Empress of most of the known world. Who would have ever thought?”

“I mean, she was a princess, wasn’t she?”

Geralt gave him a _look_ and Roche held up his hands placatingly. 

“All right, sorry. You raised a good kid. You certainly have cause to be proud.”

“Damn right I do,” Geralt nodded, satisfied. 

“So what do you think of her new husband?” he asked, unable to resist poking at the politics of it all. A lifetime of habits from court were not to be broken easily. “Or wait, you’ve met before, haven’t you?”

“Mm,” Geralt hummed. “He’s an interesting man. Good with horses, rides a chestnut Rowan mare. Étain. Means sun.”

“Of course you know his horse’s name.”

“Sun is important to Nilfgaardians. It’s a very elegant name.”

“Okay,” Roche carefully did not disagree. The one time someone had disagreed with Geralt about horses, Geralt had spent the entire rest of the evening lecturing them. It was best not to trigger that. “And what about the man himself? You approve?”

“Not really the kinda thing my opinion matters on. But Ciri likes him all right. If she’s gotta be forced to marry someone, could do worse.”

Roche grunted. Ciri hadn’t had a choice, politically. She was an outsider to the Nilfgaardian people, even if their former Emperor claimed her as daughter and personally handed over his power to her. As Empress, she was now not just in charge of their lives, but part of their religion. Knowing who she was was kind of important.

Her new husband, Morvran Voorhis was the perfect solution. He’d been groomed to succeed Emhyr, he was the heir to one of Nilfgaard’s oldest families, and he was well known to the general populace as a war hero. He was the perfect person to help Ciri appear less of an outsider. Theoretically, he was the best person to teach her what she needed to know about Nilfgaard.

In practice, Roche wondered how that was going for him. Ciri was incredibly headstrong and he had no doubt that if Morvran’s lessons and what she thought was right ever conflicted, she would be ignoring her dear husband.

“Are they actually married married, then?” Zoltan asked. “That is, are they all for looks, or is she ploughing the bugger?”

Roche snorted loudly, bringing a hand up to hide his laugh. 

Geralt sent the dwarf a horrified look. _“Why!?”_

Zoltan grinned, unrepentant.

Roche patted Geralt on the shoulder. “At least you know she tops?”

_“Why would I want to know that!?”_

He shrugged. He’d never raised a daughter, but the closest comparison he could make was his second in command, Ves. _He_ would find it comforting to know that Ves would be in control when she wanted to be. Maybe it was different with daughters?

There was a roar from a group of partygoers and Dandelion appeared before them – or rather, behind them, as he slung himself across Geralt’s shoulders.

“My throat is positively parched, I can’t sing a note more without some ale.” He held the back of one hand to his forehead in a dramatic pose.

“Oh what a horror that would be,” Zoltan deadpanned.

“Hey!” Dandelion flushed with indignation. “I will have you know that it would indeed be a horror! One beyond imagining!”

“Funny,” Geralt grunted, “your voice seems to be doing just fine without any ale.”

Dandelion scowled at Geralt and stole his drink, gulping it down despite Geralt’s protests. The witcher made no move to take the mug back, though, and Roche hid a smile behind his own tankard. 

“Ahhh,” Dandelion sighed lowly, lowering the empty mug. “A good start. I do believe I will need several more to return to my wondrous dulcet tones.”

Zoltan snorted loudly, but rose to fetch more ale for his friend. Geralt, meanwhile, shrugged Dandelion off of him and onto the bench between him and Roche. 

“Why must my friends be ever so cruel?” Dandelion lamented.

“You’re too easy to rile up, that’s why,” Zoltan answered, returning with refills for all of them. “Take Geralt here. Even when teasing him about his daughter’s married life, he doesn’t blush.”

_“Please,”_ Geralt said emphatically, “do not take that as a challenge. Witchers don’t blush.”

Dandelion made a dubious noise. “You’ve always said that, but I still think you’re lying.”

“You can’t blush?” Roche asked in surprise.

“Mmm, witcher biology.”

“Weird.”

Zoltan laughed. “Now you, laddie, you’re easy enough to rile. Just mention the Scoia’tael and you get all flustered.”

Roche sputtered, but Dandelion and Geralt both nodded.

“It’s true,” Geralt said, patting him on the shoulder consolingly, “you anger easily.”

Roche frowned. It _was_ true, but still _._

“Now your laddie over there,” Zoltan waved towards the mass of noblemen and women mingling with each other, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Iorveth lose his cool. Even when furious.”

He hummed as if he wasn’t very aware – and very annoyed by – Iorveth’s ability to maintain control over his temper. It always made Roche look bad when he went around yelling and shouting. 

“Huh,” Geralt said. “You’re right. Even when I punched him in the throat after we confronted Letho.”

“Love how casually you say that,” Zoltan guffawed. “He’s some sort of war hero here and you punched him in the bloody throat. And _still_ somehow earned his trust.”

“Eh, what can I say?” Dandelion began as if Zoltan had been referring to him, “Geralt’s just a trustworthy guy.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “My _point_ is, Iorveth knows how to keep his cool. Never seen him flustered.”

“Huh,” Dandelion said. “I bet we could change that.”

Roche thought back to earlier. Geralt was right, Iorveth usually did stay in control, not giving away anything more than he wanted to. But earlier, Iorveth had been flushing an awful lot, hadn’t he?

Had he been flustered rather than sick? What would have caused that? Obviously it had to be something about Roche, since he was the only one there when it happened. Maybe he could recreate it?

“I’ll take that bet.”

Zoltan smirked, muttering something that sounded like, “thought you might.”

“What’s that?”

The dwarf shook his head, sharing a grin with Dandelion. “All right then. What’s your plan? How are you gonna get Iorveth all flustered? I think we’ve seen enough of your fights to know that won’t do it.”

“If you start a fight here, Ciri will kick us out.”

Risk losing that incredible bed and bath? No way in hell. 

“Hmm, what would you recommend?”

What was it that had flustered Iorveth earlier? He’d blushed when Roche had caught him picking the lock to his room… and later, when they’d ended up pressed together on the couch. And in the bathroom, when Roche had been undressing. What was the common theme there?

“A hug,” Dandelion said immediately. “Iorveth _definitely_ needs more hugs.”

Roche frowned. “What, just go up and hug him? Wouldn’t that be weird?”

“Isn’t that the point? You _are_ trying to fluster him.”

“Huh. Maybe,” Roche decided. Surely there was something more subtle he could pull first. 

He was about to get his chance, because Iorveth had managed to break away from his flock of admirers and was making a beeline for their table with a determined look on his face. It was a look that also promised murder, but in fairness, most of Iorveth’s expressions did that. 

Dandelion nudged Geralt and got up. “Let’s go grab some more food for the group.”

Geralt blinked slowly at the bard and pointedly did not rise. Dandelion sighed loudly and looped his arms around Geralt’s bicep, tugging. “If I go alone I’ll get mobbed. Don’t you want to protect me?” Dandelion pouted, eyes wide, and Roche watched as Geralt inevitably caved and stood up.

“Be back shortly,” the witcher grunted.

“Where’s Gwynbleidd going?” Iorveth asked a moment later, dropping down into the empty seat next Roche.

“Get more food. Here,” Roche snagged Dandelion’s drink and passed it to Iorveth.

The elf frowned down at the half empty ale, but shrugged and drank it. “I swear, I should’ve brought more knives,” he grumbled.

“Hey, you haven’t stabbed anyone yet,” Roche patted him on the shoulder. “That’s something to be proud of.”

“Is it?” Zoltan muttered under his breath.

Iorveth didn’t react at all to the touch on the shoulder, so Roche decided to wrap his arm around the elf’s shoulders. Surely that would fluster the uptight elf.

Nothing. Iorveth didn’t even seem to notice, reaching out to snag a plate full of some sort of squash as Dandelion and Geralt returned with plenty of food and drink for all of them. 

Feeling weirdly embarrassed, Roche pulled his arm back and accepted a tankard from Dandelion. Iorveth still didn’t seem to notice anything, but Geralt, Dandelion, and Zoltan obviously had, and all of them were wearing little smirks that made him blush for some reason.

He cleared his throat. “You know… I kind of expected Nilfgaardian food to be more different. I mean,” he speared a slice of pork and pulled it onto his plate, “this is kinda the same stuff we have at home.”

“Is it?” Iorveth smirked at him, and Roche felt a sudden foreboding.

“It’s not?”

“I’m guessing you think that’s pork,” Iorveth pointed at his plate.

About to bring a bite to his mouth, Roche froze. “It _is.”_

“It’s in the same family,” Iorveth nodded. “But not quite a species you’d find anywhere up north. It’s called a javelina, at least by elves. I think the Nilfgaardians may have another name for it.”

Roche narrowed his eyes suspiciously at his bite of not-pork and attempted a tentative nibble. It tasted… well, like pork, honestly. Maybe a tad more gamey. Was Iorveth just messing with him? It was entirely possible.

“How do you even know what animals they have around here?”

Iorveth huffed a laugh. “I may have spent the last half century dealing with human politics in the north, but there _was_ a time I traveled extensively.” He gestured towards the musicians that had been accompanying Dandelion and were currently playing a lively tune for partygoers to dance to. It wasn’t something Roche had heard before, but it was kind of catchy and he found his knee bouncing in tempo with the 4/4 time. “I once played for an elven audience in what’s now Vicovaro. Never been here specifically before, but it’s not that different as far as ecology is concerned.”

Roche hummed in interest. Iorveth and Dandelion had both played music many times on the journey to Nilfgaard, so it wasn’t as if Roche didn’t know that Iorveth held music close to his heart, but somehow he’d never actually thought about Iorveth _performing._ “Were you a bard, then?”

Iorveth chuckled, “no, not really. More of a street musician. So fewer official engagements and a lot more playing on the side of the road.” His voice was fond, recalling memories he clearly held dear, and Roche felt something weird wriggling in his stomach.

“Playing for tips, huh?”

“Mm. I mean, I played in concert halls in the north, long before humans ever arrived. But I certainly never had Dandelion’s fame in the south.” Iorveth sent an amused look at the bard and Dandelion preened. 

“What would be good,” Zoltan began, poking Dandelion in the side, “is if we could have an actual dance – not this foreign southerner stuff, but a proper dwarven dance.”

Dandelion laughed, “somehow I don’t think their musicians will get it quite right, but I could try leading a northern dance. Or – oooh! A dance off! North vs South!”

“Count me out,” Geralt said firmly. “Anyway, how many people here are likely to know dwarven dances?” He glanced at Iorveth, who shrugged.

“Well what about you, laddie?” Zoltan nudged Roche. “Your lads did pretty well learning the ceilidh I taught them in Flotsam.”

Roche shook his head. “I was a bit occupied with our prisoner,” he knocked his shoulder into Iorveth’s and Iorveth grumbled. 

“Speaking of,” Dandelion piped up, “how are your men? They were pretty fun to party with, I’ll give them that.”

Geralt inhaled loudly and Roche’s spine went stiff. Of course, he realized, swallowing hard. Both Zoltan and Dandelion had parted ways with Geralt and Roche _before_ his men had been – had been– 

He dug his fingernails into his palm hard, the world going slightly muffled around him. He was vaguely aware of Zoltan agreeing with Dandelion.

“Aye, I owe Shorty an arm wrestling rematch! For a human, he’s pretty strong.”

“Zoltan,” Geralt said sharply, golden eyes looking at Roche’s face with concern writ large. “I’m sorry, I should’ve realized they didn’t know.”

Roche forced his chin down in a short nod, closing his eyes to breathe deeply.

“What?” Dandelion asked. “What don’t we know?”

Geralt bit his lip. “The Blue Stripes…”

He couldn’t listen to Geralt tell them. He _couldn’t._

Roche jerked himself to his feet. The knot in his throat made it impossible to say anything, but he had a feeling Geralt would understand. Without a word, he grabbed a bottle of liquor that someone had left on their table and marched out of the banquet hall, trying his hardest not to cry.

The last thing he heard was Iorveth asking Geralt seriously, “what happened?”. However Geralt answered, Roche refused to listen, so he wandered back to his room to consume the liquor and probably cry.

Tomorrow, he’d pretend all of this never happened, but for now, the thoughts about his team he’d been shoving down were tearing past his barricades and he needed to be behind closed doors _now._

The Nilfgaardians took no notice of the misty eyed human leaving the feast.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iorveth attempts to comfort Vernon Roche.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is ALL angst. Like aaaaaaaall angst. But hey, it helped me work through some of my own grieving.

Iorveth watched Vernon Roche march out of the banquet hall, his hands trembling. Then Iorveth turned to Geralt, face serious and grave. “What happened?”

Geralt worried his lip with his teeth. “They were killed. Murdered, really. By King Henselt. They were killed because of a conspiracy Roche was working on and he wasn’t actually there when it happened, so…”

“So he feels like its his fault,” Zoltan surmised. “Poor lad. I mean, don’t get me wrong, the Blue Stripes were pretty racist, but they were miles better than Henselt’s men, and no one deserves that.”

Iorveth hummed in agreement, frowning down at his ale. He’d spend  _ years _ fighting Vernon and his Blue Stripes. The idea that all of those men who had followed Vernon were just  _ gone _ was… strange. Strange in a way it probably shouldn’t be, considering they’d been his enemies.

“When?” he asked.

“About a year ago now,” Geralt grimaced. “I don’t think he’s really mourned them, not aside from–” he cut himself off, glancing around. “Better not to say. But he got revenge. I just don’t think that’s all he needed.”

“He got revenge?” Iorveth repeated, recalling the way Vernon had joked about getting away with murder. Maybe it  _ hadn’t _ been a joke. Huh.

Wait, Geralt said a  _ king _ had killed them. Vernon got revenge on a king? No wonder Geralt didn’t want to say it aloud. That took some fucking  _ balls _ to get away with. (Elves didn’t actually have external testicles, but Iorveth could admit to picking up a few dwarven and human sayings. The point still stood.)

Dandelion chewed on his lip, staring at the door Vernon had left through. “We shouldn’t leave him alone,” the bard decided. “Also, I think that liquor is some local stuff that’s apparently very strong. So like… we should probably make sure he doesn’t drink the whole bottle.”

Iorveth nodded. “Tequila. Definitely strong, if I remember right.”

“Can’t let him die of alcohol poisoning,” Geralt agreed. And made no move to get up, instead giving Iorveth a significant look.

“What? I doubt he wants me there. My job used to be  _ killing _ his men, remember? All of you were at least friendly.”

Zoltan scratched his beard. “Don’t get me wrong, I like the man. But I’ve never been much good at comforting and I don’t want to make it worse.”

Dandelion stood up. “I need to get back to my adoring audience,” he said, lips twitching upwards even though his expression was morose. “Tell him we’re sorry, will you? They deserved better than that.”

Iorveth blinked. Why did they all seem to think  _ he _ should go? Had they somehow missed the whole ‘enemies’ memo?

He raised an eyebrow at Geralt, and Geralt shook his head. “I was  _ there.  _ Not much good at comforting people either, and I’d just remind him of finding them.”

Finding them. That implied a lot about how Vernon had discovered the killings, none of it good. Iorveth licked his lips, darting a concerned look in the general direction of Vernon’s room. “What exactly happened?”

Geralt looked grim. “Roche was conspiring with Kaedweni nobles to undermine Dethmold, Henselt’s mage. Dethmold arrested everyone he could and tortured them for information. One of them happened to be someone who knew Roche directly.” He shook his head, letting out a heavy breath. “I was tracking down the conspiracy, trying to get some answers. I found Roche with a group of Kaedweni nobles, a good ways away from Henselt’s camp. He’d been traveling for a few days, hadn’t been back to the camp yet. But when I brought news of who’d been arrested – well. We ran back to camp and discovered… Henselt had sent a messenger, claiming that Roche had returned and would be receiving a medal of honor, and that they were throwing a feast and the Stripes were invited.”

“Fuck,” Zoltan grunted. “I’m guessing there was no party?”

Geralt’s silence was answer enough. But if Iorveth was going to try to help Vernon – what, feel better? Grieve? Not drink himself to death? – then he needed to know.

“What did they do?”

Geralt swallowed hard. “Ves – the King… he’d said that Ves should go to his tent to see Vernon receive the medal. Obviously Vernon wasn’t there. And the king dismissed Dethmold.” He didn’t say more, but once again, he didn’t really need to. Iorveth was more than aware of Henselt’s reputation and the only reason a king would want to see a mid-ranking woman alone was… 

“What about the rest of them?”

“We found them in the mess hall.  _ Hanging _ in the mess hall. With Ves sobbing in a corner, waiting for Roche to return.” Geralt dragged a hand down his face. “They weren’t involved in the conspiracy. May not have even known about it. I’m sure that only makes it worse for him.”

“Fuck,” Zoltan swore again, and Iorveth heartily agreed. 

He dragged a hand down his face and then gulped down the rest of his ale, rising to his feet. “Doubt he’ll come back to the feast tonight. Give his apologies to Ciri?”

Geralt nodded, “of course. Keep him from giving himself alcohol poisoning.”

“I’ll try,” Iorveth grimaced. They seemed to have a lot of faith in his ability to stop Vernon from doing something he put his mind to. Based on Iorveth’s experience, their faith might be misplaced.

Well, he’d just have to try to make sure it wasn’t. 

Iorveth slipped quietly out the door, avoiding the groups of gossiping nobles who no doubt had a great number of opinions on how heroic Iorveth was, even though none of them seemed to know anything about what he’d  _ actually _ done. If they tried to waylay him, he’d probably stab them, and that would cause all sorts of problems.

He huffed to himself as he wandered the hallways towards the guest chambers they were all staying in. Who would have ever thought that he’d one day find Vernon Roche’s company preferable to that of humans who considered him a hero?

Well, Geralt probably called it. The witcher was irritating like that, always able to see through the things Iorveth would prefer no one saw. 

But that was a thought for another time. For now, Vernon was clearly suffering and the others seemed to think that Iorveth could be some sort of help with that. He hoped they weren’t wrong.

There was a selfish part of him that was grateful he’d been nominated to check on Vernon. He still wasn’t so sure he was the best choice to provide comfort, but he could admit – to himself only – that he  _ wanted  _ to be able to.

Finally arriving at Vernon’s chambers, Iorveth debated knocking before deciding that Vernon wouldn’t open the door for him anyway. Good thing he always kept his lockpicks handy. You never knew when you might need to break into something, after all.

“Vernon?” he called, opening the door and stepping inside the empty receiving room. There was no response, but he could hear a faint distressed sound from the next room, so he headed straight back. “Vernon?”

Vernon was in the bedroom, but it took Iorveth several moments to realize that, as instead of laying in the ridiculously comfortable bed he’d raved about, Vernon was curled up in a corner, arms wrapped around his knees and tequila bottle dangling from his fingers and resting against his foot.

“Go away,” Vernon mumbled, pure exhaustion in his voice.

“No,” Iorveth responded, approaching him and kneeling a short distance away. “Gwynbleidd was worried you’d overdose on tequila.” Vernon just blinked slowly at him, tear tracks visible on his cheeks. “That’s what you’re drinking. Tequila. Why are you in the corner?”

Vernon closed his eyes and tilted his head forward to rest on his knees, “‘s defensible.”

“Ah.” Iorveth bit his lip, uncertain what to say. “How about I keep guard and you relocate to the much-more-comfortable bed?”

Vernon grumbled something that sounded a bit like, “even the floor is comfortable in this fucking place.”

“Do not make me pick you up,” Iorveth threatened. Were you supposed to threaten distraught people? Probably not, but dammit, kneeling always made his left ankle ache and he was not spending all night crouching in a corner.

“Hmph. Like to see you try,” Vernon said into his knees.

Iorveth shrugged. He  _ had _ warned Vernon, and threats were no good if you didn’t follow through on them. He stood up, walking closer until the tips of his boots brushed against Vernon’s toes.

“If you pour that bottle on me, I will be very irate,” he warned, then bent forward, tucked his hands under Vernon’s armpits, and lifted.

Vernon yelped, flailing as his butt left the floor. “What the fuck?” 

The man’s knees were pressed against Iorveth’s chest, and he had a fleeting thought that it would be nice to discover what they felt like wrapped around his waist. Shaking his head, Iorveth carried Vernon over to the bed and plopped him down next to the headboard. “There.”

Vernon stared at him like he was crazy, eyelashes clumped with tears, but no longer actively crying. That was a good thing, right?

“Are you planning on hogging that bottle?” Iorveth asked when Vernon continued to say nothing, taking a seat next to the man. Immediately, he sank into the absurdly plush bed and a hint of foreboding told him he would have trouble getting back up again. 

Vernon passed him the tequila, and finally spoke. “Why are you here?”

He shrugged, taking a long sip to buy him some time. He honestly wasn’t sure how to answer, what answer would help Vernon right now. “Geralt told us,” he said slowly. “I’m sorry.”

Vernon said nothing, which wasn’t surprising. In Iorveth’s experience, ‘I’m sorry’ was nice enough to hear – it meant  _ something _ that people cared enough – but ultimately rather meaningless.

He took a deep breath and began, “I’ve outlived more friends than most likely think I’ve ever had. There’s nothing that can be said that helps. But not being alone is something.”

Vernon grunted. “Gimme the liquor.”

Iorveth did, shifting on the bed until he could lean against the headboard next to Vernon. “I’m glad you got revenge.”

Vernon huffed, a sound of mixed amusement and sorrow. “Tells me not to tell anyone and then goes around telling the first elf he meets. Jeez, Geralt.”

Iorveth lips twitched. “He was very careful not to give any details.”

“Hmph.”

Would it be inappropriate to say ‘welcome to the kingslayer club’? Probably. Still, for  _ Vernon Roche _ of all people to kill a king…

Not that Henselt hadn’t clearly deserved it. But did he really think Foltest had been any different?

Better not to mention that either. Not until Vernon had the fortitude for a good argument. Right now, it would feel too much like kicking a man when he was already down. Which he’d done before, but it never left a good taste in his mouth, and Vernon deserved better.

More than that, Iorveth didn’t  _ want _ to hurt Vernon. Their friendship was tentative, but it was dear to Iorveth nonetheless. Treating this moment with anything less than the seriousness it deserved would break that.

“They were your family,” Iorveth murmured softly. “They deserved better.”

“We killed your people. Lots of your people. Why do you care?”

“Because worthy opponents deserve worthy respect. Because they were your men. Because  _ you  _ care.” Iorveth bit his lip, wondering if that last bit was too much. Vernon was skittish about their friendship, always insisting that they weren’t friends, as if people who weren’t friends behaved the way they did. He was pretty sure humans were the same as elves about that.

It had mostly stopped hurting every time Vernon insisted so very passionately that they absolutely were not and could not ever be friends. He was more than aware that his feelings for Vernon were much stronger than Vernon’s feelings for him, but he preferred not having his nose rubbed in it. 

Fortunately, Vernon accepted his explanation without suspicion, mind no doubt occupied with something so much important than Iorveth’s ridiculous feelings. What comfort could Iorveth offer a man facing the loss of his family, possibly for the first time? 

Ciaran, Iorveth’s second in command for the past several decades, would usually insist that talking about it helped. In practice, Iorveth wasn’t so sure about that – in his memory, talking  _ did _ make it a little better, but it also  _ hurt.  _

But maybe sharing the hurt was exactly what Vernon needed.

Iorveth licked his lips, picking his words carefully. “I didn’t know them, not really. But sometimes it genuinely felt like it. Not in the same way as you, obviously, but – I don’t know, there’s a certain satisfaction in understanding that the guy who keeps blowing stuff up believes in the cleansing power of fire.”

Vernon let out a rough sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “Gods, the Eternal Fire messed Fenn up bad, but he really believed. Don’t think I’ve ever believed in anything like that, except for Temeria.” He shook his head and fell silent for a few moments, before asking in a quiet voice, “do you think he went back to the flame? An eternity in fire, he would’ve loved that.” 

As he spoke, tears dripped down Vernon’s face, and Iorveth carefully did not notice. He also carefully stopped himself from reaching out to cup Vernon’s cheeks and wipe them away. Instead, he took a swig of tequila and passed the bottle back to Vernon as the liquor burned its way down his throat. 

Clearly whoever had left the bottle on their table had  _ not _ invested in the quality stuff.

“I’ve always believed that you end up where your beliefs say you should. Why should any one of us be right when there’s so many different types of people who believe different things?”

Vernon hummed thoughtfully, swallowing thickly. “I don’t – I don’t know what the others believed. Not about death. I – Fenn was the only one who really  _ believed  _ in something, you know?”

Iorveth nodded. “Then perhaps they are with him. No reason for the family to get split up.”

“Just the split between life and death,” Vernon said morosely, taking a swig of tequila. “This stuff is actually pretty decent. Thirteen would’ve definitely tried to replicate it, even though Ves was the real brains behind the still.”

“It’s also definitely one of those drinks you  _ feel _ in the morning,” Iorveth warned, snagging the bottle and taking his own sip. The world was starting to spin a little, a pleasant sensation like being adrift at sea while they were safely on the comfiest boat in existence. 

“Most of Thirteen’s drinks were like that,” Vernon laughed, a quiet, sorrowful sound, choked with tears. “He jokes that all vices come with a price, and how great was it that his could be fixed by just getting drunk again?”

“He’s not wrong,” Iorveth said, drinking more tequila. Between the two of them, they’d somehow barely made a dent in the bottle. Which was probably a good thing, but Iorveth kinda felt like taking it as a challenge. “What did he consider your vices to be?”

“Ha,” Vernon huffed, “probably paperwork. Gwent, maybe. Well, no, he definitely would’ve said sex, but that’s just ‘cause everyone was horny all the time. ‘cept for Shorty. His wife–” he cut himself off, swallowing hard. “Fuck, Iorveth, he had – has –  _ had  _ sixteen kids! And now those kids don’t have a father.”

Vernon knew what that was like, Iorveth knew. Vernon not having a father was probably one of the most known things about him. Not that it was usually put so delicately. Everyone knew that Vernon was a bastard whoreson. But Iorveth had never really thought about what that  _ meant,  _ what that said about his family. Vernon had never had a father, and that absence hurt him. How much more were those kids who’d had a father and  _ lost _ him hurting?

“I’m sorry,” Iorveth whispered again, even though he knew the words were useless. He thought about what Zoltan had said,  _ so he feels like its his fault.  _ Would Vernon believe him if he said otherwise? “It wasn’t your fault.”

The bitter laugh he got in response made him flinch.

“It was, though,” Vernon murmured, his voice small. “Because Henselt didn’t know when I’d be back and he had a battle to win. He was on a fucking time crunch, and they paid the price. Because I wasn’t there.”

“If you were there, you would probably be dead.”

“One life for six? I’d take that deal.” Vernon shrugged casually, as if his death would be nothing in comparison.

“They wouldn’t,” Iorveth said, trying not to think about how what he really meant was  _ I wouldn’t.  _ Not if Vernon’s life were the cost. Not even to repair Vernon’s heart.

“The fuck do you know about what they wouldn’t?” Vernon sneered, stealing the bottle back and taking a long swallow. 

“I know they were your family,” Iorveth responded gently. “No one wants their family to die to save their life.”

Vernon didn’t respond, but a muscle in his jaw twitched.

“They wouldn’t want you to die, Vernon,” Iorveth’s voice was firm and unyielding. Even if nothing else came of this conversation, Vernon  _ needed _ to know that.

Voice small, almost quiet enough to miss, Vernon whispered, “they weren’t even given the chance to fight. They weren’t given the opportunity to save themselves or at least go down with a sword in hand. They were hanged. One after another. As the ones left were probably forced to watch.” 

Vernon let out a sob, and Iorveth couldn’t stop himself from reaching out and pulling Vernon into him in a tight hug. 

“They would have tried,” Vernon continued, gasping for breath as tears streamed down his face. “All of them would have tried  _ so hard _ to save the others. To save Ves. But they never had a chance. And I  _ wasn’t there.” _

Iorveth could feel his own eye welling up, so he tilted his face into Vernon’s hair – where had that stupid hat gotten to? – and let the tears fall. 

“I promised them. They weren’t – when I made the team, I promised them: whatever influence I had would always be theirs. People – it’s not like the Blue Stripes were exactly popular. So whenever someone went after one of us, we responded as a group. That was the protection I promised them. That the Blue Stripes would always be there for them. And I failed them.”

“Henselt’s fault. Dethmold’s fault. Not yours. You couldn’t have known,” Iorveth soothed.

Vernon shook his head, hair tickling across Iorveth’s nose. “I could have. I could have at least prepared them. They didn’t even  _ know _ what my mission was. They didn’t know they were in danger. If I’d at least warned them that Henselt and Dethmold were enemies…”

What could Iorveth say to that? He just pulled Vernon closer to him and stroked a hand through Vernon’s hair. It had brought Vernon comfort in the bath. Maybe it could help now.

“How can they be gone?” Vernon’s arms wrapped around his back, clutching him tight. “What am I supposed to do without them?”

How many times had Iorveth asked the same question after yet another pogrom? How many times had he fallen besides the corpses of his family and wondered how he could go on?

Yet he had, and he’d built new families, over and over and over again. Losing them hurt just as much every time, and he always swore to himself he wouldn’t care about people again.

He always did, of course. Imadia – one of the few members of his  _ original _ family (well, original found family) that still lived – would say that life was pointless if we didn’t let ourselves care, but that would be little comfort to Vernon now.

“You live,” Iorveth murmured lowly. “You honor what they taught you and remember the things they loved and eventually, you’ll see something that was important to them and feel fondness instead of just pain.”

“How long is eventually?”

Iorveth winced. “It varies, depends on a lot of things. Some took a few years. Some a few decades. Sometimes a few centuries. And some I don’t know yet.”

“Fuck,” Vernon summarized.

“Yeah.” He twisted strands of Vernon’s hair around his fingers. “Still better than never having that family, though.”

“I wanted to have them forever,” Vernon whispered, and Iorveth just hugged him tighter.

“I know.”

There was nothing more to say, no other comfort he could offer. So Iorveth held Vernon close and stroked through his hair and wished that there was some way he could truly help.

At some point, Vernon’s breathing smoothed out into sleep and Iorveth shifted him down onto the bed properly. With Vernon asleep, Iorveth could thumb away the tear tracks on his cheeks and press a soft kiss to his temple. 

“I know it’s not the same,” Iorveth murmured softly, “but you still have a family. It’s not the same, but it’s something.”

Brushing the hair out of Vernon’s eyes, Iorveth kissed his forehead one more time, then rearranged himself against the headboard. He could go a night without sleeping. It was more important that there was someone here, someone who could make sure that Vernon didn’t choke to death if he got sick in the night. Someone who could tend to the inevitable hangover in the morning. Someone to wake him if nightmares struck.

Iorveth found himself picking up Vernon’s hand, twining his own fingers through Vernon’s. He wasn’t sure if Vernon would allow a touch like this when awake or if it would tread too far over the ‘but we’re not friends’ line, but right now, he needed something solid in his hands to anchor him. To remind him that Vernon was still alive, even if his team was dead. To remind him that Vernon was  _ here,  _ and even though they would never be what Iorveth wished they could be together, they were  _ something,  _ and that in and of itself was pretty miraculous.

He was determined to stay awake, but the alcohol in his system and the comfort of the bed conspired against him, and at some point when the moon was high, he drifted off.


End file.
